


conterminous

by decolletage



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Other, Post DMC3, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, pre DMC, reader is a smoker in this since that’s important apparently, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-07-27 08:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16215041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decolletage/pseuds/decolletage
Summary: it was a sort of symbiosis, you suppose. two people learning how to live together, and all that.in other words, your new neighbor (who may or may not be a crackhead) has been blasting heavy metal every night now for a week and you're still too chicken to actually confront him about it.





	1. housewarming gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK.
> 
> .  
> .  
> .  
> sorry to everyone who's left reviews on my other fics....life really got me by the balls so I may or may not update those haha...
> 
> anyways I was motivated (vergil voice) to put down these 2.5k words by the sheer will of our creator Himself so take it up with the big man *shrug*

“Well, here we are!”  
  
The stout little man who claimed himself your appointed real estate agent steps back with a self-satisfied grin as you inspect your newly minted base of operations.  
  
There were no words to describe the place besides a hole in the wall. Literally so, considering the lack of a door, and the implications of what might once have been a door frame left a jagged brick arch above the concrete stoop.  
  
You fake putting a thoughtful hand on your chin, mostly for your own amusement. It wasn’t as if you had any better options at this point; the price of rent among still-habitable districts seemed to remain dismally beyond your current budget.  
  
Enzo, your realtor, had taken you to the very outskirts of town; several blocks beyond skid row and into the half-crumbling ruins where the city’s renovation budget seemingly withered away. Surprisingly, the empty brownstones still maintained working utilities.  
  
“Thanks.”  
You nod as he deposits a stack of slightly wrinkled papers onto your outstretched palms. There was no need for a key of course, you thought and chuckled to yourself a little.  
  
It was a good place, out in the sticks with no helicopter landlords or intrusive neighbors with ambulance siren babies. Your last place of residence featured all of the above.  
  
“Oh the pleasure is all mine!” the grinning man beside you gave one last vigorous handshake before hopping down the front steps and scurrying back towards a scratched up green sedan. “Been good doing business with ya!”  
  
You paid him no mind as you stroll through the brick opening before you to inspect the interiors.  
  
Slightly warped hardwood floors, check.  
Filmy glass windows (no shutters or curtains) check.  
Cracked porcelain toilet (not leaking yet thankfully) check.  
  
There was a tub and shower head, surprisingly, and a small kitchenette in the back room. Definitely an upgrade from your last place (an attic studio with a single bathroom) which had cost even more than this. Damn, you really were a genius. You mentally pat yourself on the back and resume your inspection.  
  
No furniture as of yet but that wasn’t too big of a problem. For your line of work, you’d adapted to living and working in almost any environment. As a (self-proclaimed) professional odd jobber, you took on just about anything people threw at you: dog-walking, babysitting, car repair, tax fraud, assassinations, and everything in between. There were ground rules of course; 50% upfront and the other half when the job was done. You didn’t associate with human traffickers, pedophiles and the like. Both men and women were fair game for cleaning services but you didn’t kill kids so pregnant women were off limits as well. You rarely got those cases these days, though. There’d been more opportunities for solving murders than committing them recently.  
  
Especially in a place like this, you think to yourself, peering outside as the sun rapidly descends upon the horizon. Time to go find something to block off the hole for tonight.

* * *

  
  
It started somewhere around 11, or a little after.  
  
You’d attributed most of the creaking or otherwise suspicious sounds to rats or roaches or whatever vengeful spirits were haunting your new abode thus far, but from the moment you heard a muffled telephone ring from the other side of the wall, your illusion of privacy was thoroughly shattered. Your next door neighbor, whoever the fuck it was, seemed to enjoy blasting aggrotech as loud as whatever machine (a boombox?) they owned could manage without blowing out the loudspeakers for good. You almost wished they would, considering that the structure of your shared townhouse, fragile with age, rattled beneath the noise with the intensity of a small earthquake.  
  
You watch with bloodshot eyes as the saggy vinyl couch you scavenged from the local junkyard earlier in the day skips across the floorboards to the rhythm of the bass pulsing through the cardboard walls.  
  
Something sprinkles across your cheek and you almost expect chunks of plaster to start falling from the ceiling.  
  
Ah, this sucks.  
  
You pull the bedroll tighter against your ears. There was no way you were going to get up and actually confront anybody freakish enough to be blasting music this loud for.....almost 4 hours straight now.  
  
Ok, so maybe you didn’t like confrontations. But you had a legit reason this time, considering your crackhead neighbor might prove potentially dangerous based on the part of town you were living in right now. Even the seemingly ubiquitous patrol cars never made their rounds this far into the warehouse districts. So it wasn’t like you could call the cops. Not that it’d do much anyway, seeing as you were probably the only living person within a 2 mile radius to complain about the noise.  
  
If anything, this couldn’t possibly keep up forever. Even crackheads need to sleep at some point, right?  
  
Well, not the one living next door.  
  
By the time the music finally shut off, the first scarlet sliver of sun was inching up from beneath the darkened horizon.  
  
You heave a sigh that sounds more akin to a death rattle, and crack your stiff joints as you climb out of your bedroll.  
  
  
This was war.

* * *

  
Somewhere in between an air conditioner repair and a furniture delivery, you find time to scope out the enemy’s lair; a.k.a the neighboring residence.  
  
Large, flowing script spells out ‘Devil May Cry’ across the arch of the double oak doors. You rub your chin thoughtfully. Was this a shitty nightclub or something? The female silhouette tacked onto the end of the text seemed to suggest so.  
  
Upon further inspection through cracked window panes, the housing unit appeared empty at the moment. The door gave way with just a small push...unlocked? Alright, this guy must’ve been janked up when he left then.  
  
The interior didn’t seem so much different than your own: the weathered floorboards and cracked plaster seemed pretty much identical to the situation next door.  
  
The choice of furniture and interior decor, though...left some raised eyebrows.  
  
You let out a low whistle at the (seemingly taxidermied) busts mounted against the back wall. All of them appeared to be some sort of ghastly ghoul-like creature sporting fangs...scales...the whole Party City Halloween package. You weren’t all that deeply involved in occult shit yourself but it definitely seemed to be one of your neighbor’s hobbies.  
  
There was a pool table and a jukebox in the corner, along with a heavy wooden office desk and chair. The top of the jukebox was smashed in (which made you gloat a little inside, but also wonder how the hell it was still able to produce noise equivalent to that of a live rock concert.)  
  
A surge of jealousy wells up within you as you spot a doorway and the beginnings of a stairwell in the corner. How come this guy gets more room than you? You were the more considerate neighbor.  
  
Upon further exploration, the stairwell led up to a single room with a metal-framed bed and a nightstand. Damn, this guy owning more furniture than you was really starting to piss you off. Well, to be fair, you had only just moved in.  
  
A faint noise from downstairs suddenly pauses your ministrations. Shit. You’d forgotten that you technically broke into a stranger’s house. More footsteps from downstairs. Oh shit.  
  
You scan the room urgently for a place to conceal yourself. Let’s see...the bed frame was too high to hide underneath, and you weren’t about to stand behind the coat rack like an idiot. The only escape route (the single panelled window) was too far for you to make it in time. A metallic glint catches your eye, and your gaze lands on the slotted panel fixture on the wall behind the door.  
  
  
You mentally thank whatever deity or otherworldly being that led you to your current career path as you fish out a phillips head screwdriver from inside the pocket of your jacket.  
  


* * *

  
  
Dante yawns as he pushes through the double oak doors of Devil May Cry. The hinges squeal loudly in protest at the abruptness of his actions but he pays them no mind as he lumbers over to the desk and all but collapses in his chair.  
  
Usually, he’d go out for a celebratory strawberry sundae after a particularly hard gig, but this case had forced him to deal with some tedious sleep-spore demons. Toxins and the like rarely affected him due to his lineage, but after getting blasted in the face with sentient fungal particles for an entire half day, even a son of Sparda got a little droopy-eyed. It was a tedious mission but beggars couldn’t afford to be choosers; the utility bills wouldn’t pay themselves.  
  
He heaves a sigh and grabs the phone off its stand. Maybe he could order some pizza before he passed out for the next 10 hours or so. That paycheck should put itself to good use.  
  
The devil hunter briefly debates sitting and waiting for the delivery man, but his eyelids had suddenly found themselves engaged in a supraorbital weight lifting competition against gravity and he was not about to go for gold any time soon.  
  
He inhales deeply and drags himself to his feet towards the stairs. A little nap couldn’t hurt.  
  


* * *

  
The vent was rather snug fit, even taking your malnourished frame into consideration. You carefully pull the grate back in place and pull the collar of your jacket over your nose and mouth. The last time anyone had cleaned out these vents was probably back when your great grandpa was still alive and kicking. It was a good thing the dry season was upon you now; god knows what you’d do if you had to crawl through mold.  
  
The vent itself was too narrow and fragile to crawl through entirely, which left you no choice but to curl up and hide until whoever was stomping their way up left the room again so you could reach the window.  
  
The door slams open, and a silver haired man stumbles into view. He looks incredibly disoriented as he sheds his worn red coat before falling over onto the thin mattress, the worn bed frame sagging beneath the sudden impact.  
  
You were speechless.  
  
So this was the fucker who’d been fucking over your sleep schedule for the entirety of the past week? And yet, here he was sleeping like a log while you had to endure 5 straight nights of watching the sun rise with bloodshot eyes.  
  
If you weren’t in hiding right now, you’d be very tempted to go smack some pots and pans together right next his ear. Not that it would wake him up though.  
  
Wait.  
  
You could almost feel a vein pop out of your temple at this realization. This guy was obviously down and out for the count; god knows when the fuck he was going to wake up. Oh hell no. Like fuck you were about to park your ass in this dusty metal pipe and watch him sleep. You had shit to do!  
  
As you begin to internally debate whether it was worth the risk to sneak towards the window while he was still asleep, the powers that be decided to bestow their blessings upon you in the form of impatient knocking from the front door downstairs.  
  
A muffled ‘pizza delivery!’ seemingly rouses your unconscious neighbor like the flick of a light switch. He throws himself off the bed and skids down the stairs in a flurry of uncoordinated limbs. You choke back a chuckle as several sounds of impact echo back up through the stairwell.  
  
As his footfalls fade, you spring into action (literally springing out from the dusty vent.) You pop the grate back into place and screw it back onto the wall with lightning speed. After the last screw is secured, you rush to the window and gingerly wiggle it open. The movement flings a slight layer of debris and chipped wood towards your face, but you scrunch your nose and persist until the faint feeling of a balmy breeze brushes your cheeks.  
  


* * *

  
Dante barely forces his eyes open as the delivery man downstairs starts up an enthusiastic drum solo on his front door.  
  
He heaves a sigh as he rolls out of bed and trips heavily down the stairs. This was why he left the door unlocked; those doors had been forcibly bust open so often that it was unlikely they could withstand much more abuse. He didn’t have the cash to spare on fixing those things! Maybe he should just get rid of them and leave the doorway open for good.  
  
Another round of knocking interrupts his thoughts.  
  
“Hello? Pizza delivery!”  
  
“It’s open,” he calls out hoarsely as he stumbles towards the doors, “you can quit bangin’ on those doors!”  
  
The delivery man pauses mid-knock as Dante rips the door open, thrusting a couple of crumpled 10s towards him and snatching the box from his hands.  
  
He sniffs as he cracks the lid open. Olives again. He could swear they keep fucking up his orders on purpose.  
  
Well, the pizza could wait. For now, all he wanted to do is sleep. Dante tosses the box down on the desk and turns to trudge up the stairs again.  
  


* * *

  
  
The sounds of footsteps approaching quickens your pace and you clamber across the window sill on tiptoes.  
  
The frame barely fits your person, and you are forced to stoop down to crawl through. The wind is stronger outside and you inch along the ledge of the roof in careful steps. It was a good thing you weren’t especially acrophobic, you think as you cautiously peek behind your shoulder at the brick pavement below.  
  
Right now, the most important thing was to reach the top window of your own apartment without being spotted.  
  
You keep a steady pace as you climb downwards, your heart hammering in your ribcage as the wind blasts across your shoulders and yanks at the flaps of your jacket.  
  
Louder footsteps and a door slamming echo from up above. Shit, did you forget to close the window? The top of a head begins to poke out and you feel your soul trying to squeeze up through your esophagus. Shiiit.  
  
As soon as you feel your foot hit the sill of your own window, you swing yourself through the narrow opening with ape-like dexterity——only to collide against the bare wood of your empty floor. 

* * *

  
  
The first thing Dante notices as he walks back upstairs is the feeling of a slight breeze through the rafters, which is strange considering how stuffy it usually was in there.  
  
He spots the half-open window in the corner and scratches his head. Had he left it open somehow? He’d thought the thing was rusted shut since he’d set up shop here.  
  
But just to make sure it wasn’t a prelude to any sort of demonic activity, he walks over and sticks his head out, scouring the roofs of neighboring townhouses for any flashes of movement.  
  
Oh well.  
  
A minute passes and nothing particularly suspicious stands out to him in this minute, so he slams the thing shut with a shrug and shuffles back to bed.  
  
Aside from the occasional vermin or stray demon, there wasn’t a single living creature within a mile-long radius of this vicinity.  
  
Well, to his knowledge at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh trust me there's more (whether you like it or not)


	2. let’s get this bread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHEM.  
> .  
> .  
> no comments. please enjoy.

  
You sigh indulgently as you take a drag on your cigarette stub and lean back against the warm porcelain of your bathtub. The frothy water enveloping you swirls in response, and you smile as you lean into the pleasant heat.

Nothing beats a hot soak after a long day in your book; not sex, drugs, rock n’ roll or whatever the fuck kind of metaphors people came up with these days.

The tub was smaller than you would’ve preferred, but at least it was clean enough to bathe in now (after a vigorous 2 hours of scrubbing) and you were thoroughly savoring the fruits of your labor.

God knows your poor bones needed it, you wince as you inspect the mottled bruises across the length of your ribs. Despite its age, this hardwood floor was still...well, relatively hard.

Ruminating over yesterday’s course of events brings you back to the topic of your most recent job. You chew your lip thoughtfully as you mentally review the events of this morning...

* * *

 

_ Earlier _

“So you’ll do it?”

The ailing woman standing before you clutches her leather handbag nervously. You lean back against the tattered brown vinyl of the saggy couch you scavenged this morning and prop your feet up against its counterpart, 3 legged coffee table (with a prosthetic beer can for its 4th leg)   
  
“Of course. You’re going to have to fill me in on exactly what happened though, m’am.”   
  
She places a 50 down on the table and steps away towards the your hastily constructed “door.”   
  
“I think it would be better if I showed you.”   
  
You try not to look too eager as you pocket the bill and follow her outside.    
.   
.   
.   
The lady turns the corner at a brisk pace that makes your eyebrows shoot up. Guess you really couldn’t judge a book by its cover, huh? You tail her steadily through the various debris and slowly increasing number of pedestrians as you make your way further uptown.    
  
The crowd grew thicker around these parts, as did the presence of police cars. Seriously though, this was just about the fifth one you’d spotted so far. Did a bank get robbed or were they have trouble filling traffic citation quotas now that the majority of residents downtown could no longer afford cars? Not that you blamed them, considering parking anywhere was fucking impossible with how narrow these streets were.   
  
You client threaded her way through a cluster of police cars, ducking beneath haphazard strands of caution tape. You balk a little at the sight of uniformed officers casting you suspicious glances from beneath the brims of their caps. You never did mix well with authorities considering the questionable legality of your profession.    
  
Nevertheless you flash a business-like grin and duck beneath the tape yourself. Nobody made a move to stop you, surprisingly.   
  
The fenced off brownstone in question contains an incredibly foul stench, and you recoil a little upon crossing the threshold. 

The room is dark and unlit apart from faint beams of sunlight seeping out from between the muslin curtains. Motes of dust dance in their wake, throwing haphazard stripes across a thick Borchelou rug and a pair of velvet couches. Oh yeah, this was the bougie part of town all right. Judging by the lavish décor and the 50 bucks in your pocket, this gig was simply  _ bound  _ to land you a fat paycheck.

The somber woman from before stands above a crumpled corpse as you trail to a stop in the corner. You suck on your teeth a little as you take in the view. You’re no stranger to crime scenes, seeing as you went wherever your next paycheck led you but you could never quite get used to it.

The middle aged man on the floor is sprawled at a strange angle; limbs askew like a discarded rag doll. He appears to have been maimed by some sort of large animal; violent gashes trailed across the length of his back, rending through the silky fabric of his bathrobe clean to the bone. Peeled flesh litters the floor around him, the rug having soaked up most of the blood.

It couldn’t have been an animal, though. You frown as you squat down for a closer look. The wounds, as claw-like as they seemed, were too clean and too deep to be from an animal. An animal with claws would’ve likely used its teeth as well; there wasn’t a single bite mark to be found on the body. Not to mention the eerily pristine conditions of the bookshelves and vases surrounding the body left no visible signs of a struggle.

“Whatever attacked my husband last night wasn’t human,” she begins and her voice cracks a bit, “but I’m sure you can tell that it wasn’t an animal either.”

Your head jerks up in shock. This lady had really shattered your previous impressions of her.

“So...I’m taking it that you want me to do what the police can’t and take revenge on his killer?”

Exorcism may not be your forte but it certainly wasn’t out of your range of abilities. You had yet to run into any particularly powerful supernatural beings and you secretly hope it would remain like that for this case.

Her response, however, manages to surprise you once again.

“No, that won’t be necessary.” She blinks a bit forcefully, as if to will away the undercurrent of emotion in her words. “He knew what he was getting himself into.”

Before you can ask, the woman continues.

“As you can see, my husband is...or was, an antiques collector.” She steps back a little and gestures to the multiple vases and trinkets adorning the rest of the room. “He would travel the world to attend auctions and exhibitions to expand his collection.”

Ah, rich people and their seemingly useless hobbies. You inspect one of the objects displayed within a glass case with a hint of contempt.  _ ‘Dragon’s Teeth - Lebanon.’  _ Interesting. The labelled glass jar is filled to the brim with jagged pieces of bone.

“His most recent purchase cost him his life.”

You stop in your tracks to look back at her with narrowed eyes.

“Cursed object huh? Or was it not actually for sale to begin with?”

She meets you with an unblinking gaze.

“I suspect it may have been a combination. The thief wasn’t of this world, and it was willing to kill my husband to steal it.”

You ponder this for a moment before choosing your words carefully.

“...What exactly am I looking for here?”

She pulls out a photo with a small caption scribbled in ink. It’s a silver medallion with an etching of 2 angels, conjoined at the shoulder and thigh. The caption reads  _ ‘the Arcana Medaglia’  _ and nothing more.

You take the photo and give it another once over before stuffing it in your pocket.

“Alright. Give me about 3 weeks and we can follow up before I go at this.”

She nods and steps aside to let you through.

“That’s fine. I’m willing to wait as long as it takes.”

* * *

Which brings you back to where you were now.

You chew on the butt of your long-extinguished cigarette as you ruminate over the information you’d been given. Your research had led you to a local museum, from which the medallion in question had disappeared from its display several months prior. There hadn’t been much of a public uproar, though.

Sure, it was an ancient relic of some sort but nothing especially worth mentioning besides a slide or two in the local news. In fact, there hadn’t been much of an investigation at all, which you found rather suspicious. If—

A series of muffled shouting and thumping noises from the opposite wall interrupts your thoughts. You heave a long-suffering sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose, submerging yourself up to your chin. What on god’s green earth did you do to deserve the loudest motherfucker on the planet for a next door neighbor? You just wanted to take a bath in peace, damn it.

As if taunting your silent pleas, a round of gunfire sends a sprinkle of plaster chunks across the room. You glare at the holes by the base of your towel rack without moving an inch. The water was still blissfully warm and like  _ fuck  _ you were about to waste it. The devil himself could drag you kicking and screaming out of the damn tub.

The gunfire and crashing noises grow in intensity and  _ was that growling you heard? _ with an earth-shaking crunch, the back wall of your bathroom warps and explodes in a spray of plaster and splintered wood.

A shrieking fills its wake as a skeleton-like creature flies through the air and makes brutal impact against the cabinet beside you. A sword follows at breakneck speed, impaling the ghoul through the decaying flesh of its torso, and it emits a screeching death rattle before collapsing in a pile of sand all within the span of 15 seconds.

“Hah...Jackpo—”

The debris clears to reveal a tall figure clad in a red coat with a pistol & a claymore in each hand.

 

Well, shit.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jk there is one thing i need to explain; yes that is a dmc2 reference but this is set before dmc2 so sorry if anyone was expecting to see lucia or anybody else :x
> 
> EDIT: ok so i may have gotten my timelines mixed up but ykw there;s nothing else from 2 here this is my world and you’re all living in it :clown:


	3. hole in the wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was kind of hard for me to write sorry it’s short!
> 
> also to the guy who complained about smoking: my explanation is that i’m writing the reader based on how the DMC universe would shape its inhabitants; meaning that if you’re living in the slums you’re not exactly in a position to have lung problems (apologies to anyone with asthma) but it’s not as though i’m making an oc here given the lack of physical descriptions of the MC here. Sorry if that doesn’t appeal to your tastes!
> 
> edit:  
> ok shoutout to hamlet for telling me the previous chapter got uploaded twice im monky

Maybe he’d underestimated this one, Dante thinks as he unloads another round across the top of the pool table. 

2 of the 3 Hell Prides skulking from the opposite side let loose an unearthly howl as they dissipate into dust.

Leaving the door unlocked while he was sleeping upstairs wasn’t one of his better decisions, seeing as he’d woken up to a variety of Deadly Sins hosting a Sunday night potluck in his office. It was annoying, but nothing he wasn’t used to by now. 

At least the pizza had been left untouched, he thinks as the last Pride whirls towards him in a flurry of metal and tattered black cloth. He sidesteps at the last minute and brings Rebellion down across its back in a heavy swing.

Huh, maybe his game was a little off today. The path of the arc jams the blade hilt-deep into chipped plaster. He grunts and rips it back out, one foot planted against the wall for purchase. The Pride lunges towards him again, and Dante spins around to roundhouse the demon square in the face.

It flies through the cracked plaster of the wall with a sickening crunch, the impact causing the rest of the heavily abused structure to crumble beneath it. 

Shit, he hoped it wouldn’t cave the roof in. The devil hunter is no stranger to property damage, but repairing that stuff would likely consume the rest of his most recent paycheck. He didn’t care about the wall; he could just take down whatever remained of it and expand the room. It wasn’t as if the neighbors were going to complain about the surprise remodelling, he thinks to himself wryly. 

Except he stops smiling as he steps through the opening and spots another person (real, alive, and very much in shock) half submerged in a tub of foamy water. The Hell Pride, pinned to the cabinet beside it, lets out a burbling wheeze as it collapses in a pile of sand. 

* * *

Your jaw has gone long slack at this point, and you are suddenly grateful you went generous on the bubbles.

The shock on his face probably mirrors your own expression right now. 

The two of you remain rooted to the spot for a good minute and a half, and just as he recollects himself with a cocky grin, you cautiously reach out and remove the sword from the remnants of your towel cabinet to slide it across the bathroom tile. 

His smile falters at the action, and he pauses for a beat before stooping down to retrieve the blade.

“Uh...thanks.”

You nod stiffly in response, then freeze in place with an expectant look. Was he just going to stand there? Maybe he was expecting you to say something. Of course, having just soaked in a boiling hot bath for about an hour; your brain wasn’t quite ready to call back into work just yet. 

Not to mention, this was probably the first social interaction you’d had with someone who wasn’t conducting a business transaction with you in almost a month. Nevertheless, societal obligation calls, and so you respond with an intelligent, “This is my bathroom,” before immediately wishing the sword had gone through your skull instead.

If your neighbor had noticed your lack of coherence, he hadn’t let on any signs of it; in fact, your words seem to snap him out of whatever trance he was in and he mutters a low “Yyyeeeaaahhh…” before shuffling out of view.

As his footfalls fade, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding and let out a little laugh. 

  
  


What the fuck?

* * *

Dante rubs a hand across his face.

Jesus christ, that was awkward. He’d been about to say something witty too! But something about the look on your face—-so full of incredulity and aggravation—withered away the words on the tip of his tongue. Not to mention your lack of a reaction to the demon that was impaled right next to you by a 4 foot long sword. Actually, the only thing you’d seemingly reacted to at all was your wall being knocked down.

It wasn’t as though he’d felt awkward having bust a hole through your bathroom (well okay maybe a little) but it took more than an awkward encounter to faze a son of Sparda! 

His game was  _ way  _ off today. It must’ve been the day-long nap he’d taken. Or maybe he was just hungry. The devil hunter reaches towards the pizza he’d left sitting on the desk overnight and heartily inhales the scent of cold grease. Aww yeah. That’s the stuff!

Aside from the little….bathroom fiasco, you lamented your cover being blown. You’d been trying so hard to avoid the guy too, since well, you did technically break into his house and all. Which was also why you hadn’t exactly been all up in arms about your wall getting smashed in. Part of you was afraid he’d found out somehow and wanted to get back at you for it.

However, as you recall the dumbstruck expression on his face, you decide that it was unlikely he’d even intended the property damage in the first place. As soon as he’d left, you threw on a towel and draped the shower curtains over the hole in your wall. You’re no stranger to repair jobs, but you’re going to need time (and money) to make it happen. 

It occurs to you that you could probably force your neighbor to fund the expenses considering he’d been the cause of the whole ordeal...but that would require actually talking to the guy face-to-face. Again. Considering how awkward your first conversation had been? You shudder at the thought. You’d rather pay for the repairs yourself than confront your neighbor again.

If anything, this next paycheck would cover the costs with room to spare. You pull out a manila file from the contents of your drawer and let it drop open across the crappy wood desk you’d pilfered from a nearby garage sale. Inside are several sheets of your chicken-scratch notes along with the photograph your client had given you. Time for work.

At the initial crime scene, you’d made a careful note of several things in particular: one was the partially smashed glass sliding door in the back, and two were the discarded bullet shells mixed among the broken glass on the ground. The third, and most undeniably suspicious, was the trail of sand and dried blood leading away from the door and towards the street. 

Ok, so obviously something or someone had intercepted the murderer right during its getaway. That someone had been using a .45 caliber pistol, if the cartridges were anything to go by. You’d scratched your chin in doubt. The trail led nowhere, and it couldn’t have been  _ that  _ easy. It screamed of a red herring, but you would take any sort of physical evidence you could, mostly to prove to your client that you weren’t just dicking around.

The blood samples were your biggest lead right now. Occult shit may not have been your thing, but to make a living in this day and age, you weren’t a stranger to things like divination. That being said, it still didn’t make you feel any less ridiculous trying to set up a dowsing ritual. You carefully pour the concoction of dried blood flakes (rehydrated with some handy tap water) into a little glass vial along with a stick of hazel. You cork the whole thing and string it up with an old shoelace (you were short on materials ok) before dangling it over an old map of the city.

_ “Show me the thief,”  _ you mutter under your breath as the vial begins to move. Various papers on your desk flutter a bit as the movements begin to increase in speed. The string jumps in tight, shaky, circles before straining against your fingertips and hovering over a single point on the map.

You move your head to get a better glance underneath your hands without shifting your arm, and grin.

Gotcha.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> say no more fam i’m working on the next one as we speak


	4. pursuit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI
> 
> i'm on break from school right now so i'm trying to keep posting ^w^ 
> 
> thank you so much for the support & sorry for the wait!

The dowsing session finds you prowling through the back alleys of Capulet on a Tuesday, the rays of a late afternoon sun stretching long shadows over overflowing dumpsters in bands of hazy black and yellow ochre. 

You were forced to leave most of your materials behind, but you did take the vial of blood and your revolver with you. If it really did turn out to be a demon of some sort, you doubted you could take it on with just a handgun, but the consecrated silver bullets inside would probably help stall it long enough for you to grab the medallion and make a break for it.

Not exactly your best plan of action, but then again it wasn’t like you were some sort of paranormal expert. After all...a jack of all trades is a master of none, but oftentimes better than a master of one. 

You grin internally and continue to stalk quietly across the cracked concrete. Discreet looking back doors line the stretch of brick wall to your left, most likely rear exits belonging to the various seedy small shops along the main street. Muffled bass thumps out a steady beat from within one of the various doors, the vibration causing nearby trash cans to rattle in time with the tune.

Maybe it was just a trick of the noise, but you feel the vial tug at the string. The movement stops you in your tracks and you gaze at the object intently. As if to reward you for your undivided attention, it tugs again with even more force. 

The source of its attention seemed to lay beyond the back door of a seedy-looking club. You grimace a little at the inevitability of having to endure even more noise, but cautiously push through it anyway. 

* * *

 

Spots of color fill your vision as your eyes adjust to the darkness within. The steady thump of bass swells like a tidal wave as you duck through the doorway, and you flinch a little as you grasp the vial tighter. 

Despite it being only a little after dark, you can make out more than just a few bodies twisting to the nondescript techno blasting from the speakers. Then again, judging from their attire and stages, the dancers were most likely employees of the establishment. A small gaggle of onlookers let out a stream of whistles, hooting and applause every time one of them dipped forward to shed another article of clothing. 

You use the noise as a cover to slink steadily past them, pressing against the wall to make yourself scarce. The last thing you needed was some angry bouncer tossing you out like a rat. 

The vial rattles on its string and suddenly swings in the opposite direction from where it had been pointing. The sudden shift causes you to pivot on your heel like the inexperienced owner of an excitable dog, and you feel the toe of your shoe catch the edge of an uneven floorboard. 

_ Shit. _

Your free hand shoots out to grasp at the nearest object in a desperate effort to prevent yourself from planting face first onto the sticky hardwood below. Unfortunately, the nearest object happened to be the leather coattail of a customer enjoying a large mug of beer. Your sudden grip topples him from the barstool, and he lunges out to catch the edge of the counter. Then, with some form of supernatural strength, he somehow manages to tear the varnished oak countertop from its granite base on the floor with an ear-splitting rip.

Every pair of eyes within a good 10 foot vicinity fixates upon the scene with a silent stare as the movement jostles a rack of wine glasses and sends a cascade of fine crystalware onto the ground, scattering a spray of jagged shards across the neon dance floor. 

_ Oh shit. _

The victim of your mishap is the first to break the silence, collecting himself with a soft groan. You hop to your feet quickly in spite of the stinging pain across your side and shoulder. In times like these, the only way to recover (and break out relatively unscathed) was to smooth things over with a professional demeanor.

“My apologies, are you alright sir?”

You plaster on an apologetic smile and reach out to pull him up, brushing dust and broken glass off his coat. Before he can respond, however, a stern-looking bouncer approaches the two of you.

Ah.

As you glance around discreetly for all possible escape routes, a flash of movement catches your eye. 

Your head whips around to catch the tail end of a female figure skulking through the door towards the alleyway. The vial rattles furiously on the string around your neck. 

Yep, it was time for you to exit stage left. 

“Sooo sorry for the sudden intrusion, but I really gotta get going!” 

You flash a dazzling grin at both the dazed man and the scowling bouncer before dexterously leaping over the remains of the wooden counter and out the door.

Pointedly ignoring the cacophony of angry shouts in your wake, you fixate on the retreating silhouette before you as you break into a sprint.

* * *

 

Dante swipes an arm across his cheek, the remnants of what used to be his drink leaving a tepid trail down the front of his shirt.  _ Man, this blows. _

A hand on his back interrupts his thoughts, and he blinks a little in surprise as he catches a glimpse of your face. The dim lighting makes it difficult to clearly make out your features, and it  _ had  _ been a while since the incident in your bathroom but the faint stirrings of recognition cut through whatever annoyance he’d felt as fell.

Before he could respond to you though, the barely restrained fury seething from the security guard flashes at him like a warning beacon. You must’ve sensed the same, so he wasn’t too surprised as you bolted outside. The figure you were seemingly chasing, however, piqued his interest. Dante could smell the demonic energy from a mile away. 

Demon hunting wasn’t exactly a very well-known or popular line of work, and the only other demon hunter he knew was Lady. The half devil cocks a lazy grin at the guard and shoulders Rebellion.

“Just put it on my tab, will ya?”

He waves a 2 fingered salute before bounding out into the alleyway after you. Where there’s smoke, there’s bound to be fire.


End file.
